Miss Marianne
by Meowser Clancy
Summary: Shortly after their engagement, Marianne shares a moment with her Colonel. I'll go where the wind goes regarding plot...lol.
1. Chapter 1

It had been three days, since he'd asked her to be his bride. Marianne couldn't be happier, and when Colonel Brandon had appeared, on a bright Sunday afternoon, asking if she'd like to go for a walk, Mrs. Dashwood had let them go instantly, only asking that they be back in time for dinner.

They'd past the time with good conversation; the colonel had brought a book of poetry to read from, and Marianne had come across a very lovely patch of wildflowers that she'd made a bouquet from.

And now, they turned to home. A question had been on Marianne's mind since they had started their excursion; indeed, since he had proposed to her three days past.

"I hesitate to suggest this," Marianne began. "Lest you think less of me-"

"That could never happen, I can assure you now-"

"But seeing as we are now engaged," Marianne tried to finish, and her cheeks were a bright red now. "You might kiss me."

She felt her dear colonel's eyes on her, heard his inhale, knew his gaze dropped to her lips.

"Marianne," he whispered. "Miss Marianne."

He took her hands in his. "Dearest of my heart. I-" -he lay a kiss on her hand, just a light caress- "could never-" -another kiss- "-do anything that might-" - he lay a kiss on her palm, this time lingering a moment, fairly burning her with the heat- "-be perceived as improper-" -he lay a kiss on her inner wrist, such an unexpected place that Marianne jumped- "-or could damage your reputation."

"Of course," she gasped, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed.

"We must go in now," he told her. "Your mother is probably watching for us, and I don't ever wish her to worry for your reputation."

"Colonel, I don't think she'd ever fear for me...if I was with you," Marianne said.

He smiled. "I do think you can start calling me Christopher," he teased gently. "At least in private. We are engaged now."

"Yes," she replied. "Christopher. I—my mother won't worry. Might we not stay out for a moment longer? We didn't finish the poem."

He looked down at the book in his hand. "You are quite right, Miss Marianne," he said.

"We might lose the miss," she breathed, reaching to take his hand again, firmly grasping his wrist. "Christopher. We are engaged now."

His eyes met hers, and the moment sparked both of them. Marianne was aware of her breathing growing a bit faster, and she could feel every move of Christopher's eyes on her; her eyes, her nose, her lips...and then lower, for just a second, not too long to be scandalous or lecherous, but just long enough to make her move forward again, on the very edge of her seat. "Christopher," she whispered. "I do wish you'd show me what it's like..." She licked her lips. "To kiss someone who loves you."

His pupils grew ever wider, and his lips parted. "Marianne, you tempt me so," he told her. "One kiss. And then we go to your mother."

She merely nodded, no words left in her mouth.

His hand grazed her face, gently cupping her cheek, angling her towards him. He leaned in, so close, his forehead pressing against hers, and their breaths mingled together for a moment.

"One kiss," he repeated, voice ragged, as though commanding himself to stay true.

"Yes," she said. "Please."

"Marianne," he said, and their lips met, in a quiet, brushing motion, so light and Marianne could feel the pleasure and yet the pain from how soon the moment would end.

But then his lips landed on hers, firmly, and she thrilled to his touch. They moved against hers, so warm, and she found herself responding deeply to his kiss, moving to throw her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his.

And just like that, he moved back, chest heaving, gently removing her arms from his neck. "Marianne, we must not," he said.

"Of course not," she managed, looking anywhere but him, trying to control her breathing.

He offered her his arm, after a moment had passed, once they'd both managed to calm themselves a little.

She took it, thrilling in the strength of it.

"Once we are married," he began, as they walked to the little cottage, spying Margaret in the upstairs window.

"Yes?" She wondered.

"I shall never stop kissing you, Marianne," he told her, voice very low.

They could see Elinor in the parlor, and Mrs. Dashwood was coming to the door to greet them.

"I look forward to that very much," Marianne told him, daring a glance up at his face.

He smiled down at her, his grip on her arm tightening a little. "As do I."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This chapter takes us back in time. I've read some **amazing** fanfiction for Brandon/Marianne but as of yet, I haven't found yet found a written scene of when Brandon goes to find Marianne on the hill overlooking Combe Magna.

Enjoy ;)

* * *

Marianne couldn't remember a time when she had hurt more. Not when she was little and her yellow dog had gotten trampled by horses, not when she was a young teen and Charlie from the village had kissed her and then never spoken to her again, not even when her father had died.

All of those times had hurt, so very much.

But this one. This one was far beyond all of them.

She was in the carriage, not feeling anything, just staring out into space, her eyes blank, her heart sore. And she was thinking about Willoughby.

His eyes, so laughing and merry, yet so broken when she'd found him at the ball, and then so cold. Colder than she'd ever imagined such a man's could be. His smile, his teasing lips that had never touched hers. He'd taken a curl of her hair, and he'd tried to kiss her but she'd ducked away; they were alone and it was already scandalous and there was still enough of Elinor in her that she didn't let him.

His dancing feet, so light and quick. His muscular legs, his arms, how he'd looked when he'd come through the rain for her, running down the hill.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, repressing a sob, not wanting to distress Elinor even more. Oh god. She'd been so cruel to Elinor. She'd had the privilege of being able to show her heartbreak.

This made Marianne hurt even more. Outside, the sky was a dismal gray, but it was clearing up. She registered Colonel Brandon riding past; darting in front of the carriage. Soon he'd fall behind again. It was all a carefully orchestrated dance. He'd ride ahead, scout out the route, and come back to tell the driver if there was anything in the road that would block their way. And then he'd fall behind again, keeping a careful watch.

She lost herself again, fantasizing about Willoughby. He'd made such fun of the Colonel, at every possible opportunity. And she would wager that Colonel Brandon had dueled with him, after the news about Eliza.

It surprised her to realize that she was thinking of the Colonel as being someone so proactive. This man she was now envisioning was completely unlike the man she'd thought the Colonel to be barely a week hence.

The carriage was rolling to a stop; Marianne dully registered that they had arrived. It was time to alight.

Elinor went first, and Marianne had to fight herself to get her legs to work. She didn't want to leave the darkness of the carriage, but she fought forward, forcing herself to appear normal. She remembered the careless words—she could barely remember who'd even said them—about how you could see Combe Magna from the top of the hill.

And she was barely registering Colonel Brandon helping her from the carriage, she wasn't paying attention, she was saying something to Elinor about going for a walk.

Her sister replied that it was going to rain.

Marianne tossed something back and didn't stop walking. She knew that Elinor was weary, and it was doubtful that she would follow.

And she didn't.

Marianne was alone, for the first time in what seemed like days. She felt the air on her face, and the breezes which had before delighted her heart, now stung her soul. They mocked her, telling her that she'd forever be walking alone, that Willoughby hadn't loved her, had never loved her, would never love her...not enough. Not really.

The hills were hard to climb, and she felt the weakness in her legs. Her legs didn't want to keep on going but her heart forced her onward, one foot in front of the other, til she found herself on the hill overlooking Willoughby's estate.

Combe Magna. What was to be his. What now wouldn't, and with good reason.

She felt her heart pinch, wondering if she still could have married him, if he'd asked her knowing that he'd been disinherited; if he'd told her the sordid, terrible reasons why.

And she knew she would have. She wished that it weren't true, that she could convince herself to say no, knowing what a past he had…

But all it meant was that he was human. Just like her.

If he'd asked her that Sunday, instead of going to town to find Miss Gray...she would have said yes. She likely would never have learned the circumstances of why he'd been disinherited, but she would have accepted any ludicrous story that Willoughby told her.

She sank to the ground, feeling her legs give way, his name slipping from her lips. "Willoughby."

Her eyes lost focus. She felt the wind whipping around her, she felt the first drops of rain that almost instantly became a hard shower.

She felt the water soak through her clothes almost immediately; she was chilled to the bone but her body soaked it in eagerly, taking the wild energy from the strikes of the rain and giving her one last jolt of movement.

"Willoughby!" She nearly screamed and then sank to her knees, feeling her mind leave this plane, leave her body behind, completely unconscious to her surroundings.

The rain only became harder. Marianne lay on the grass of the hill, eyes unseeing, body unmoving.

* * *

He didn't like this weather, Brandon reflected, glancing out the window. Rain was sure to come, and soon. If Marianne wasn't back in two minutes…

He glanced at the clock, and then at Elinor, who was watching the window as anxiously as he was. All it took was a look. They made brief eye contact and Elinor's lips parted to speak but Brandon was shaking his head, already moving to the door. He could almost feel Elinor's relief.

Once outside, Brandon liked the weather even less. The wind was wicked, endeavoring to whip him every way, but he was determined, and his stride didn't break for one instant.

A dark voice inside him urged him that he shouldn't bother, that Marianne had chosen a different, lesser man, and she deserved any heartbreak.

But the part of him that Brandon listened to only ached for Marianne. She should have had happiness. She should have had a long and merry life with Willoughby, the man she loved, despite Brandon's own opinions of the man. She should have been given that, and life shouldn't have robbed another innocent young woman of her dreams and happiness.

Like Eliza.

Brandon only hurt for Marianne, almost more than he hurt for himself.

The rain started and Brandon quickened his steps, nearly jogging now; lightning struck and Brandon broke into a cold run. He was terrified. He had no idea what he'd find around the next corner, around the next tree branch, he was so close, almost at the top of the hill.

"Marianne," he muttered, the word almost a curse, but it turned to a cry. "Marianne!"

She had to be alright, if he found her and she wasn't...if she didn't pull through...Brandon didn't know what he'd do. Probably wrinkle up and die himself. He had had his heart broken too many times before. He'd likely not survive another one.

He wasn't as old as she'd sometimes acted like he was, but in terms of heartbreak, he was older than most. He'd been through too much.

There was no response to his call, and he forced himself faster, cursing the bullet that had once hit his shoulder in India, which was now screaming at him. He pushed it aside, ignoring it, and now here he was, Combe Magna in sight and Marianne…

His eyes darted around, checking the trees, maybe she'd gone for shelter; he moved forward, trying to see through the ever hardening rainfall.

He almost tripped over her. In the darkness and gloom, he hadn't seen her on the ground; hadn't thought to look for her there.

A flash of white and Brandon glanced down and there Marianne was, laying on the ground like she was dead, her eyes unseeing.

"Marianne!" He bellowed, falling to his knees, pressing his hands to her white throat. She had a pulse. Her heart still beat.

He gathered her into his arms, wondering if he ought to do more, or if he should just get her back to the house as soon as possible. He adjusted his hold on her, her head swinging back limp over his arm, her limbs all akimbo, refusing to hold their own weight. He didn't trust the pulse and he leaned down to press his forehead to hers, trying to see if he could feel her breath. There it was. Faint but there.

Her lips were so close to his.

Brandon pressed a kiss to her cold forehead, to her cheeks, wanting to kiss everywhere, warm her body with the heat of his love. But that wasn't his place.

He struggled to standing, coming to a decision. He was no doctor, he reflected grimly, starting for the house. He wouldn't chance it.

* * *

Marianne felt motion, and her eyes opened. There were arms around her. Dear god. This was just like…

Her eyes flew open, one word on her lips, which quickly fell away. It wasn't Willoughby who carried her.

It was Colonel Brandon, with a determined face, lips set.

"Colonel," she whispered, and he looked down at her.

"Miss Marianne," he said, shock in his voice.

She tried to shift in his arms, and he tightened his grip. "I won't drop you," he promised.

"I know," she said, finally finding her arms, forcing them up. She was so cold, she felt so far away from the world, and here was her rescuer, warm and real, tethering her to this earthly realm.

She managed to get her hands up, placed them firmly on his shoulders, forced her head higher. "Thank you, Colonel," she said, her mouth close to his ear.

"No thanks are needed," he told her, but his face softened, she could see it.

She felt herself slipping away again, she could feel her hands sliding from his shoulders; she wanted to return them, hold on to him, but she couldn't hold on, not to anything. It was..too hard…

The world was again black.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Brief description-Marianne is eagerly anticipating Brandon's return from London, after the piano has arrived.**

 **Enjoy, StarSpangledBanner27 :)**

* * *

She was never sure, before a certain time period, the depths of the feelings that the Colonel held for her. She knew that the Jennings' wanted to see them matched but she wasn't sure if real feelings existed in Colonel Brandon, and she knew that they didn't exist in her own beating heart.

From the first moment she'd been introduced to him, called away from her piano and ushered to his side, Mrs. Jennings grinning almost ludicrously and Elinor looking on with an almost smile as well, she'd not thought highly of him. He was, after all, so old. Not terrible looking but so far on the other side of five and thirty that he was simply not to be bothered with. He was sure to be dried up, not an ounce of passion or sensibility left in him.

Unlike Willoughby, whose sensibility led him on paths that took away his inheritance, and passion that was quickly tamed by the threat of poverty.

Marianne sat in the parlor, Elinor in the kitchen talking to mama about wedding plans, and Margaret was somewhere upstairs, or outside...Marianne wasn't sure.

She'd been in a daze for not a short while now. Colonel Brandon had just sent her a piano—her dear friend Christopher Brandon had just sent her a piano. For some reason, before now, she'd hardly considered him as even having a Christian name, despite her growing feelings.

Feelings that she didn't know what to do with. Feelings that made her feel guilty, unworthy, stupid to even think of it. Because why on earth would Colonel Brandon want her now? If, indeed, he'd ever wanted her before now, as so many attested.

She wasn't whole now. That was the part that confused her most. She was heartbroken and mourning a man who had never truly cared for her. Love did not cease when money was taken away, and she knew that a man who'd choose money over love had never felt love in the first place. She was still recovering from the sickbed, and though Brandon had come over unceasingly to read poetry with her, she still, somehow, doubted that she could be loved. She doubted that a man as a faithful and kind as Brandon could love someone as foolish as she.

And she doubted herself, wondered if the feelings that were beginning to stir in her breast were real, because how could she love again so soon after Willoughby? And yet…

And yet. Had she felt true love for Willoughby or had that been mere infatuation, indeed, or being in love with being in love? Had she been in love with him because it was right? Because he was passionate and young and handsome, everything she'd always dreamed for but never really expected?

She didn't know. Her feelings were a mess right now, and…

And the piano Brandon had sent was beautiful. The piano was a testament to everything that was right in the world, the piano fit in her tiny cottage, and the piano made such lovely noise.

Brandon hadn't heard her play yet. He was returning as soon as he could from his mysterious trip—indeed, had he travelled merely to secure her a piano? That seemed impossible, so it begged the question of what his other business had been—and she'd received a short note from him just today saying that his trip had been unceremoniously delayed and now he wasn't quite sure when he'd be back to hear her play.

I hope you've learned the piece by now.

He'd ended the letter with those words, the reminder of which caused Marianne to stand up and walk to her piano, shawl still tight around her. She still got chilled sometimes, something which worried her, but she didn't want it to worry her. She'd be fine if summer returned in full swing. When the sun was hot again.

She'd be fine.

She just hoped that winter didn't come first.

Her fingers ran over the piano keys, the piece coming back to her, almost memorized. She closed her eyes, not singing yet, just feeling the coolness of the ivory beneath her fingertips.

 _Miss Marianne._

She could hear his voice, almost as if he were there in the room.

 _Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_

He had read from the eighteenth sonnet, one day at Marianne's request. She remembered how hot the blush on her cheeks had been, how she'd struggled to hide her true emotions right now, hoping that he merely thought her moved from the beauty of Shakespeare's words.

 _Thou art more lovely and more temperate_

She wasn't temperate, God above knew that she wasn't like Elinor, though she now longed to be. Some things would never change, though. She still blew hot and cold and didn't know her own mind. She closed her eyes even tighter, thinking of how his long fingers had turned the page.

 _Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May_

 _And summer's lease hath all too short a date_

She shivered again, hoping that she would not fall to such a fate. She was still far too cold, and this house wasn't even drafty, it was so small, and she got up from the piano, abruptly stopping her piece, to go and shake the poker in the small fire that lingered in the grate.

"Dearest, if you're cold, I wish you'd let me know," Elinor said, and Marianne started, dropping the poker at her sister's voice.

Elinor had already nearly crossed the room, and was deftly poking up the fire til as much as it would go. She'd have to add more fuel for it to roar and it wasn't cold enough for that but Marianne felt the increase of heat in the room and her cold fingers appreciated it.

"I was a bit cold," Marianne admitted.

"I noticed, you stopped your playing," Elinor said. "And nothing seems to stop you when you're learning that new music from the Colonel."

Marianne tried to not blush, but Elinor saw the reddening of her cheeks. She was kind enough to not say anything, but Marianne saw the small smile now on her sister's face. Elinor had definitely noticed.

"His trip is taking too long," Marianne said, moving restlessly around the room. "I want to go on a ride."

Marianne had never been much of a rider, leaving that to her sister to dominate, much preferring the tightness of a curricle. But now she had a leaning towards it, wanted to go back to it, liked how it was intimate but it also kept you apart from...whoever was riding with you. There was no accidentally knocking against them and then intentionally not correcting it, leaving you pressed against...whoever your companion was.

 _Willoughby. You don't want to ride in a curricle not only because of Willoughby but because the Colonel, nobel as he is, would look a sight driving such a thing. And he is the man you want to be riding with now._

Marianne shook her head, clearing the thoughts away.

"Do you think you're quite well enough to go for a ride? We'd have to get together a costume for you, as well," Elinor fretted.

"I can wear yours," Marianne began, knowing as she said it that Elinor's would need much taking out before it would fit her own body. Elinor was so much slimmer.

"I can start taking it out," Elinor agreed, not even bothered, just glad to see her sister expressing interest in new activities. "Edward is gone for the week anyway." Her cheeks were now the ones to flush. "It's not like I'll be going out riding anytime soon."

Marianne resisted the urge to tease, remembering how Elinor had earlier restrained herself.

"Thank you," Marianne replied, sinking onto the couch. "I admit that I...am impatient for the Colonel's return."

"I think we all are," Elinor said. "Mama just wants you settled, and surely the Colonel means to ask you soon."

Marianne started, her eyes flying up to meet Elinor's. "What?"

Elinor raised an eyebrow. "Surely you realize the path you're on with the Colonel."

Marianne hesitated, her cheeks coloring.

"He sent you pianoforte," Elinor said, now sounding a bit worried. "Marianne. Don't say you've led him to believe that you have more affection for him than you do."

"I haven't," Marianne protested. "I...I don't think I've led him on."

Her sister was frowning now. "Dearest, what have you two been up to?"

"We were just reading poetry," Marianne said. "We share a love for the same writers, and we both love music and he was...he just doesn't get to hear music that often…" She sank back into the couch. "He means to ask, doesn't he?"

Elinor was quiet for a very long, somber moment. "You don't want him to?" She finally wondered.

"I don't know if I do," Marianne whispered. "When Willoughby was going to ask, I was...I was beside myself with excitement. I felt so strongly for him, my heart beat so fast, and he was all I could think about. With the Colonel, it doesn't feel the same. He doesn't make my heart race—not in the same way. It's more of a hum. I feel safe around him. And Elinor. I don't miss the way my heart raced. It scared me, in a way."

"I know what you mean," Elinor said. "When Edward came to see me, to tell me of Miss Steele's marriage to his brother, my heart seemed like it would run away inside my chest it was beating so hard. It's not a nice feeling. But afterwards...it was a bit quicker, like you said, it was a hum. After he'd proposed, and we went for a walk...My heart was happy to be around him, but it wasn't afraid."

"If what I feel for the Colonel is…" Marianne took a deep breath. "Love, it's different this time around."

"Expect it to be," Elinor said. "Indeed, embrace it. You aren't the same person anymore, Marianne. Your heart has changed. Just because the feelings are different doesn't mean they aren't."

Marianne looked at her sister, heart on her sleeve. "I want him to ask," she confessed, and the words seemed to free her. "I do want him to ask. I can barely wait for his return and this letter this morning put me so on edge. I just want him to be back, here, with me."

Elinor leaned over to embrace her sister, holding tight. "He will be soon," she whispered. "I promise."

* * *

It was sometime later that night, after supper, and Marianne was still feeling restless. The Dashwood ladies had adjourned to their little parlor, and Marianne was trying to finish a sampler; she'd never liked sewing, but she'd have to get used to it if she was going to be a married lady.

She blushed just at the thought, shocked at her forwardness and assumption. She couldn't assume that, even if her family seemed to be.

Margaret was playing with the cat, on her belly.

Mrs. Dashwood had tsked at first but hadn't asked her youngest to get off of the floor. There was time enough for Margaret to grow up and there was definitely no reason to rush it. She wasn't looking forward to day that Margaret started taking suitors, that was definite.

Elinor was doing the accounts, but Marianne could see that her sister's mind was wandering. Her pen was pausing every other moment, and her eyes were distant, off in another world, a faint smile on her lips.

She was thinking about Edward. She had to be thinking about Edward.

They heard hoofbeats then.

Marianne disregarded them at first, because no one ever came to call this late, unless it was an emergency, and they were all here, what could have happened?

And then the hoofbeats were nearing, coming up to the cottage, and her head jerked up, her eyes widening. Margaret's gaze was the first she met and Margaret was already standing up, rushing to the window. "It's the Colonel," she cried.

Marianne stood up. "Mama, I cannot see him, I don't look presentable," she almost wailed. "He said he was delayed or I would have put on a better dress."

"Don't worry," Mrs. Dashwood soothed. "He'll think you look beautiful no matter what you're wearing, and he can't mean to stay long anyway. He probably just wishes to let us know that he is back."

Her mother was flushing a little, and she hurried to adjust Marianne's hair, brushing one curl behind the ear, and tugging Marianne's neckline down a little.

"Mama!" Marianne said in an agonied whisper.

"Shh," Mrs. Dashwood said. "I think I'm going to make a pot of tea. Do you want some tea, Margaret?"

"No," Margaret protested, but here was the Colonel, being shown in by Thomas, and her mother was bowing, Margaret's hand firm in hers, greeting him politely and then hurrying to the kitchen.

Elinor said something about a headache and then Marianne was alone with the Colonel. Her Colonel. His hat was still in his hand; he hadn't given it to someone, so he didn't mean to stay long.

He glanced after Elinor. "I rather expected a warmer welcome," he drawled. "Your family didn't seem very eager to see me." He had a smile in his voice and Marianne had a hard time not starting forward, running to him.

She wanted his embrace. She'd never felt it, and her hands curled into fists at her sides from how powerful the longing was.

"Colonel," she whispered, and cleared her throat, repeating herself. "Colonel, it's lovely to see you."

His gaze settled on her, and he stepped forward, before pausing. She wondered if he felt the same way that she did right now.

"It's good to see you as well, Miss Marianne," he told her. He did walk forward now and Marianne felt her heart jump into her throat (look at her, saying that her heart didn't race around him, and now it was beating so quickly it was painful) but he was merely going to the piano.

"It fits," he said, hands brushing over it.

"Yes," Marianne agreed. "I was so pleased to get it, I never expected such a small instrument existed, and then you went and found one."

"I was on a mission," he agreed.

"I don't think I should ever be able to thank you enough," she continued. "When it arrived, when the men were bringing it up, I couldn't fathom what it would be, and then it was a piano, and oh, I couldn't believe it, I was so pleased."

She was smiling, she could feel how bright it was, and he was smiling back at her, a look that was almost surprise on his face.

"Miss Marianne," he said. "As I live and breathe, I've never seen you smile that brightly."

She flushed hot, and he seemed to think he'd gone rather far as well, because he was pulling back; she could feel it.

"I've already learned the music you sent with it," she told him. "By heart, as well."

"That pleases me," he replied, and her heart thumped again. "It has been such a short time."

"I was anticipating a much later return for you," Marianne whispered. "Your letter got here this morning, saying your trip was delayed."

"I sent that prematurely," he admitted. "My solicitor contacted me and I thought there would be much to work through, and then it was suddenly all taken care of, and I was free to jump back on my horse and…" He met her gaze, his eyes intense as always. "Ride back to you."

She couldn't even speak. Her heart was beating so swiftly, and he was looking down at her with those eyes, and she didn't even know what to say.

He was clearing his throat, breaking the moment. "I didn't mean to intrude on your evening, I know it's late but I couldn't help myself."

"I'm so glad you didn't," Marianne burst out. "It made me happy that—" _That I was the first person you wanted to see, that you came right to me, that you were thinking of me all the way in London, that you're right here, right now, barely a foot away from me._ "—you came to see me. I'm happy you're back."

She'd moved closer to him, and now he was shifting closer to her. "I'll come back tomorrow," he said.

"Yes," she agreed, before all of his words were even out.

"Miss Marianne, I hadn't finished yet," he said, but there was a smile in his eyes. "I want to hear you play my piece."

"You'll be pleased," she began, before realizing how it sounded.

"I rather think I will," he said, and before she could breathe, he was reaching up, one hand brushing against her face, smoothing her hair back.

They were both frozen, just staring at each other, and then his hand dropped.

"I should be going," he said, and she exhaled, for what felt like the first time in her life. "But I shall see you tomorrow, Miss Marianne, never fear."

"I won't," she said. "I never do, when you're concerned."

And he was smiling again, moving closer, and she almost thought he meant to kiss her, and she had a sudden thought that maybe he wanted to, just as much as she wanted him to, and then he was taking her hand, raising it to his lips, bowing over it. "Tomorrow," he promised, eyes on hers, and then his lips met her hand, and she was dizzy, feeling their warmth, wanting them on other parts of her body.

"Yes," Marianne agreed. "Bright and early."

"Well, I do need to sleep," he drawled, teasing now, breaking the sensuality of the moment.

"Don't take too long," she said, and found herself walking him to the door.

"Give my regards to your family," he requested.

"Of course," she whispered.

"And goodbye, Miss Marianne," he said, the door open, one foot out.

"God speed," Marianne replied, and he was gone.

Oh! She couldn't wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hi! I had some nasty writer's block and I hate that this was so long in coming.**

 **I decided to go back in time again, to when our Colonel first sees Marianne...and then I have a surprise after that. :)**

* * *

It didn't seem fair, Marianne lamented. She didn't like their new house, she wasn't fond of their new neighbors, and now they were being dragged out for yet another event.

If father was still alive…! Oh! How things would be different!

Marianne missed her father; in different ways than her sisters did, to be sure. She missed his smile, she missed his enthusiastic pride in his girls, she missed everything about him. And while she didn't miss the money, per se, she missed not being treated like someone who didn't have any.

She didn't care about the money, but they'd been treated like churchmice, begging for scraps, ever since they'd moved.

She hated it. And John, only giving them 100 a year to live on! Such a sum was unthinkably small, and she _knew_ it hadn't been her father's wishes that his beloved second wife and daughters be driven to such poverty.

Marianne sighed, letting the servant help her from the carriage.

They were at the Jennings, and the only thing that was keeping Marianne from feeling crazy was the fact that they had a piano. They had an amazing piano, and Marianne had been told that she could play it; in fact, part of the purpose of this party was so that Marianne _could_ play it.

And play it she planned to; as long as possible, staying at the grand instrument until dinner was served…

If only she could get away with it, she thought gloomily, but the gloom dissipated once she was presented with the noble thing.

It was beautiful. She lay but a hand on the key and trembled a little; she hardly dared touch it.

"Go on, go on," Mrs. Jennings was urging.

"Our party is not complete yet," Elinor protested. "Did you not invite your friend, the Colonel...something?"

"Oh, Brandon comes on his own schedule," Sir John rebutted. "He does like music, however."

"Go ahead and play," Mrs. Jennings continued. She passed a sly glance that Sir John met. "There is no reason to delay, he is a music lover…!"

Sir John nodded; Elinor was frowning but Marianne had no time for their machinations today and she didn't care if this was some plot of theirs.

She just wanted to play.

Everyone had finally sat down, adjusted themselves, talked, and then finally all was settled.

Marianne began to play, her finger gliding over the keys, for how could fingers not glide when met by such a beautiful instrument? The tone was beyond anything, and she'd never laid a finger to such a fine thing. Her father had had a piano, to be sure, but it had been old, a wedding present or something of the sort.

This was new, this was grand, this was beautiful.

Marianne didn't know quite how long she'd been playing; she felt off in another world, but suddenly there was applause, the piece was over.

She stared down at the keys a moment longer before looking up.

And there he was.

She started a little, inside, not visibly.

He was old, to be sure, but he seemed so intent on her that she fought a blush. His eyes were staring at the picture she made, and Marianne fought to keep her eyes from meeting his, forcing herself to look away.

She started into a sprightly tune, something silly which made Mrs. Jennings crow with delight and laughter.

The strange moment passed; the gentleman was noticed and pulled into the company. Marianne finished the song and slipped in just as he was being introduced to Elinor, hoping to catch the end of the introduction and avoid one for herself.

Alas, it was not to be had.

"And Colonel, this is our new songbird," Mrs. Jennings was gushing. "I never thought that my pianoforte would be played with such skill. This is Miss Marianne Dashwood. Miss Marianne, Colonel Christopher Brandon."

Marianne let her eyes meet his; and they were sharp, but somehow mournful, and she didn't like the way they pierced hers.

"How do you do?" She wondered.

"I am well," he said. "You play with great skill."

"I have played since childhood, anyone can play well if they start early." She kept her words sharp.

He seemed nonplussed.

The company had started to chatter again, and Marianne suddenly found that they were at the edge of the group, not the middle and Colonel Brandon was keeping close to her; not too close, it was more like he was guarding her.

Well, she didn't need to be guarded!

She stepped away, moving back to the piano without excusing herself, making a show of looking for her gloves, knowing fully well that she hadn't taken them with her to the piano, but wanting something else to do, to distract the whole scene.

She could feel Elinor's eyes on her, and she knew her sister could tell that Marianne was flustered.

"If you're looking for your gloves," Colonel Brandon began, suddenly near her again. "I believe there is an unattended pair on that chair."

"Oh." Marianne looked to the damned chair, knowing full well that her gloves would be there, exactly where she'd put them.

"Colonel," Elinor smoothly interjected. "We are one of your new neighbors, I presume?"

Marianne could hear him tell Elinor about his estate but she wasn't listening, she refused to listen.

She suddenly knew what Mrs. Jennings plan had been, and she didn't like it. Show her off, make her pretty—the Colonel wasn't even eligible! He had to be on the wrong side of five and thirty and Marianne wasn't putting up with this treatment. Especially when his gaze was so intent as to unnerve her.

* * *

"What did you think of me, when you first met me?"

The words slipped from her lips almost without thinking, and then Marianne blushed fiercely, because she knew they would be turned around on her after her betrothed answered the question.

"I'm not sure you want the answer," Christopher—oh dear, it was hard to even think of him as that—replied.

"I do," she began, hesitant.

"Well," her Colonel continued, and Marianne breathed easier, knowing that she wouldn't be able to think of him so personally until they were wed. "You were a maestro, and I, who had once thought myself a good musician, was blown away. I have seen many a woman pretend they have mastered the pianoforte but, Miss Marianne, you are the only one to whom the boast is true."

"I am not a master," she began.

"And the only one who refuses to boast it," he said, cutting her off. "Don't be modest, Miss Marianne."

"Pride is unbecoming," she replied.

They were sitting outside on the lawn, and Marianne knew that her mother was somewhere in the parlor, keeping a lazy eye on them.

Margaret was up a tree, and Marianne was conscious of her as well, but no matter.

"And besides that…" He was continuing, and Marianne felt her heart skip a beat. "You were lovely. You were a songbird, a maestro, and beyond that, you were possibly the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen."

Her cheeks were bright red from the compliment, and she began to protest that as well, but her Colonel reached out and took her hand, stilling the words.

"These hands," he murmured. "So small and yet so accomplished."

"Colonel," she whispered.

His eyes met hers, and they were both thinking of the same thing, and it burned both of them, as he jerked his hand away, adjusting his gaze elsewhere.

"I must now ask you the same question," he began. "Something I don't think you wish me to do."

"Oh, Colonel," she began. "I was not the same person, and I admit, I didn't like you. You stared, and you cannot deny that, and I knew that Mrs. Jennings meant it to happen thusly and I did not like being set out like that!"

"Like what?" He wondered, discreetly bringing his hand back to cover hers.

"Like bait," she said.

He burst out in a laugh, one of few. His smiles were still rare, and laughs even more so, and Marianne felt her heart thrill. God. She'd never thought that one of Christopher Brandon's smiles could bring her to such a state, but here she was, waiting on each one with baited breath.

"I do believe Mrs. Jennings can make anyone feel like bait," he said. "I do not blame you."

Her face was red, and she paused a moment. "I was going to say," he continued. "That I would not ask such a question, knowing that my…"

She met his gaze, wondering what word he was going to place there, and he seemed to realize what she waited for, and paused.

"Beloved."

The word hung in the air, and Marianne felt her hand move, interweaving her fingers with his, sheltered from her mother's view by his leg.

"I would never ask you a question you didn't want to answer," he said.

"Well, you should start," Marianne began. "Because honesty is necessary."

"Yes, but I trust you," he said. "And if there are things you wish to hide, they may stay hidden. That is not dishonest, merely private."

She stayed still a moment. Their hands were locked together now, and his thumb was on her wrist, lazily drawing circles.

"I thought you were old," she admitted, and felt his smile. "But I must say this, so don't interrupt me. I thought you were old because I could not imagine myself aging. I thought that I would be forever young, that I'd find someone to marry and we would be like Greek lovers, somehow achieving eternal life like Psyche." She met his gaze. "At that age, I would have preferred taking on the Underworld to admitting that I was mortal. And then I did end up in the Underworld, and came out the other side much wiser. Colonel, I no longer see your age as a bad thing. I cannot imagine marrying someone less wise than you, I look at society's finest and only see young boys who have not yet learned what it means to be a man. And then I see you, and see the best man I have ever been privileged to know."

"Miss Marianne—"

"No," she began, her cheeks red hot. "Please, let it be silent for a moment."

There was silence. She felt the breeze on her cheeks, felt the sun coming down. He shifted just a little bit closer to her, so their shoulders almost touched.

"I love you," he told her, not looking at her, perhaps sensing that she couldn't bear such a thing right now. "And I think I loved you from the moment I saw you. And I knew that it was impossible, that you were so young, so beyond a man like me."

"Mrs. Jennings said from the start we'd make a good match," Marianne began, trying to diffuse the tension, and her sudden need to be closer to him. "I hate that she's right, but we seem almost perfect for each other."

He again burst out laughing. "Such reluctance," he said. "She is always right, and that is the most infuriating thing." He met her gaze, and the heat between them seemed to intensify. "Miss Marianne, I could not planned this better myself."

"Considering that all of my plans had me ending up the wife of a wastrel, obviously neither could I," she quipped.

"Were you my wife, I would kiss you right now," he told her.

"If you were my husband, I'd let you do more," she countered, and knew that she now had to stand up, leaping to her feet, feeling that all of her strength had returned and thanking God above for it.

She had to end this moment, before they did something they'd regret, before they went too far. Her mother was just inside and Margaret was here somewhere and she knew both were too honorable to eavesdrop, but that didn't mean voices didn't carry.

He was standing with her, offering her his arm, and she took it, holding tight; met his gaze one more time.

"I cannot wait," she admitted.

His only answer was to tighten his hold for a moment, and she contented herself with remembering his kiss, knowing there were only more to come.

* * *

 **A/N: The second part takes place just a few days after the first chapter. Hope y'all enjoyed and please let me know your thoughts on their conversation. I know it got a bit intense, but well, I think that some intense emotions were shared. Both Brandon and Marianne are such passionate people and I can't view their courtship as something that was dull or tame :) ~ Meowser**


	5. Chapter 5

**Keeping A Promise**

 **A/N: This chapter gets a little saucy; nothing explicit but please be aware before you read! I've always liked imagining intimate moments between them and I hope I don't disappoint~Meowser**

* * *

"Didn't I warn you," Brandon asked lazily, his hands curling through his young wife's hair. "That once we were married I wouldn't stop kissing you?"

"I think there would be trouble if you did stop," Marianne replied saucily, and her husband responded by stealing another kiss.

They'd been married for two weeks, two weeks that had passed in a haze of golden days. They'd married in June, but they weren't travelling until September. That meant these past two weeks had been spent in seclusion at his estate, something that Marianne hadn't minded at all. Who wanted to waste time traveling on a honeymoon, when there were so many other, more interesting, activities to spend time on?

They'd had picnics nearly every day. Brandon would inevitably sprawl over the blanket and Marianne would lean against his chest. He'd end up feeding her grapes or cheese, and his fingers would start to linger at her lips too long, until she'd give into her impulses and capture them with her mouth.

Then the food would be forgotten, and his arms would wrap around her, and they would kiss until she felt dizzy. His hands would find their way to the buttons on the back her dresses, and pretty soon they would be rushing inside, the picnic basket forgotten in their race to the bedroom.

Life as Mrs. Brandon wasn't a bad life at all, and she wished that she'd been able to make this discovery sooner.

"What are you thinking about?" Brandon asked, pulling her away from her thoughts.

"I was just musing on how very silly I used to be," she admitted, rolling onto her side so she could see him better.

"You were never silly, my dearest," he whispered, bringing up one hand to lay a kiss on her knuckles. "Just impulsive and full of passion."

"I was too passionate then," she sighed, knowing that she was digging for an answer from him. His eyes darkened, and she knew she was going to get what she wanted.

"I don't think you being too passionate is possible," he murmured, voice dangerously low and silky. "Indeed, I want to see you even more passionate. I don't think I've quite plumbed those depths yet."

Her cheeks were bright red, and she knew that he would make her pay for her teasing words. She couldn't wait. "Well, I must be a grand lady now," she said. "Surely I need to stop acting like a-a maiden in love."

"My dear wife, I don't think that's something you should ever stop doing," he whispered.

"I don't want people to judge you poorly because of me," she said, and he was pulling her into his arms, adjusting himself so that he was over her.

"I don't think we have to worry about that," he said, his hands inching her nightgown up her thighs. Marianne shivered as cool air hit her legs, and Brandon hummed, as if in response. "Are you cold, my dear?"

"No," she whispered, the blood already beginning to pool somewhere that definitely wasn't her face.

"Pity," he said, as the nightgown went over her head. "I wanted to warm you up."

"Maybe a little cold," she breathed, and he lowered his body over hers, leaning down to kiss her deeply.

She reflected as his body moved over hers, making her feel things she wouldn't have believed possible before marriage to him. She wondered if Willoughby would have made her life even half this blissful, and, honestly, she doubted it. He was such a selfish man, even when he had been in love with her. Things had to be his way, and she knew he wouldn't linger over Marianne's pleasure as Brandon did.

She closed her eyes, hands tangling in her husband's hair as his mouth warmed her body. He took his time, every time, kissing every inch, making sure she was thoroughly excited before taking care of his own pleasure. Her mother hadn't prepared her for this at all. She'd quietly told Marianne what her wifely duties would be, the day of her wedding. She'd said to lie back and try to think pleasant thoughts.

Marianne could barely even form words when Brandon's mouth was...there. She didn't need to worry about the time not passing, since it always passed far too quickly for her liking.

She also sometimes wondered if Edward made Elinor feel like this too, and then she'd blush, knowing just how much that wasn't her business. She'd always been too inquisitive for her own good, and yet, the thought persisted. She wanted to ask her sister, she wanted to make sure that Elinor was taken care of in the bedroom, but she knew that Elinor would never dream of answering such a question.

"My dear, I feel like your head is far away from this room," Brandon interrupted.

"Oh, please don't stop," she protested, as his body shifted off of hers. "Christopher."

"What are you thinking about now?" He asked, eyebrow arching high.

"I was...I was thinking about you," she faltered. "Well, sort of. I was thinking about how lucky I am to be your wife. I don't think many women get to...um...feel like...the way I do."

"Well, I learned early on that both parties should enjoy these moments," he replied. "It would be selfish of me to enjoy this as much as I do, and not make sure you did as well. You are the one who will have to carry the child, if there is one."

"I hope there will be," she blurted. "Eventually. I rather like having you all to myself."

"You will always have all of me," he said. "Now are you going to stop being distracted?"

She nodded eagerly, and he smiled wickedly. "Then I shall pleasure you anew."

His lips lowered to meet hers again, and his hands began a journey downwards.

Really, life as Mrs. Brandon was more than she could have ever dreamed it would be.


End file.
